What is transpiring on the top of my head? The want of a comb led to a whimsical root, the whimsical root led to a notion, the notion percolated for months as the root threatened to spread, and then a month of painful nightly rituals unfolded, in which a comb played an essential role, after all.
And now these children of cultivation and neglect continue to people ma tete. I'm fond, then weary of them. They solicit compliments, but not jobs. Santa Fe never blinked at them, but Crawfordsville stares. What am I to do with them? Recently I've been revisiting in my memories the exhilarating freedom of a neatly cropped head, but in my dreams I run my fingers through normal hair and mourn the decapitation of 35 funny friends.
Hippies on the internet differ: Some say that dreadlocks can act as antennae to the world. Some people enjoy this, and some cut them off because they feel painfully aware of ... something. Others claim that they may muddle your thoughts.
Would I root out the pernicious thoughts from inside my skull if I clear-cut what's on top of it? Would it bring order and vigour to my wispy attempts at thinking, writing or praying? This kind of radical purification rarely turns out to be prudent. The dreadlocks are probably not the cause of my musty mind. (I tell myself I'm still adjusting to "post-grad" life.)
To tell the truth, I feel kind of stuck. I'm inclined to distrust the occasional urges for drastic change, perhaps to the point that I will refuse to change even when it's quite advisable. On the other hand, I'm always becoming more hyper-aware of this inclination. Whether I cut or cultivate, I'm reacting to what I perceive as a flaw in myself. This gets tangly and recursive, and fast. I'll never act in freedom!